


Nightingale

by silentlullabye



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music from the 40s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentlullabye/pseuds/silentlullabye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Ianto reflect on the real Captain Jack. </p><p>Episode tag to season one episode twelve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my older fics (very old as I no longer write in this fandom except by direct request) that I'm cross posting here from my fanfiction.net account.
> 
> It is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. This fic was requested by someone on ff.net who wanted a reflection or extension of the end of the episode.

“Jack?” Toshiko asked, stepping into his office. He looked up to meet her questioning eyes, knowing exactly what she wanted.

Her hand still bore the bandage from Tim the Navigator, a man who, if still alive, would be nearing his 90s. There was nothing else about her appearance that would suggest she had spent several hours earlier that day in the year 1941.

He smiled at her, giving her his Captain Jack pearly whites. “I’m fine, Tosh. Go home, it’s late.”

She looked unsure. “If you need someone to talk to then you know I’m –”

“I know. Go home.”

Owen popped his head through the door abruptly, startling Toshiko. She clutched her heart, still getting reacquainted with a time without bombs.

“Look, Tosh, I appreciate you offering me a ride home. But could we please get a move on before the cripple, me, begins to bleed again because someone is a crap shot and can’t manage to sever internal body parts correctly.”

“I was aiming for your shoulder!” Ianto shouted from across the hub where the kitchenette was housed. Owen smirked. 

“Mmhmm. Tosh, could we?” He gave her a look and darted away, right arm clutching his bandaged shoulder.

“Jack…” Toshiko gave him a pleading look.

“Go home, Tosh. Take Owen home before he moans himself to death. Come back tomorrow. Everything is fine.” She looked at him, and he could swear for just a moment that she saw through his lie, but then she nodded.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Toshiko.”

Owen flipped off one of the light switches as the pair exited through the door to the car park. Jack was glad Owen had agreed not to drive, considering the thirty-something stitches he had had to give himself (with Toshiko’s help). 

The lights in the meeting room and over the computer stations went dark.

Not much of a drinker, Jack took the snifter glass he had used earlier to toast Captain Jack with Toshiko and poured himself another brandy. He sat, staring at the clock on the wall, thinking. If he was quiet, and titled his head just right, he could hear the music. He could feel a soft cheek against his ear, hands on his back. And he was back, dancing with the real Captain, enjoying a few final moments. And then the kiss…

“Sir?” Ianto startled him from his memories. Jack sat up straight and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Ianto?”

“I’ve finished tidying up and I’m about to head off. Just thought I’d check… See if you needed anything before I go.”

Jack marveled at the man before him; hours before he had fought with and shot a colleague in order to save the world. Yet here he now stood, looking very distinguished in his suit, tie done up, not a button or a hair out of place. Jack knew he was asking if Jack wanted him to stay. The relationship between them had slowly evolved ever since their first night together, after Suzie’s second death. And often times, once the others had left, Ianto stayed behind in the arms of his Captain.

But tonight Jack wasn’t in the mood. An odd idea considering he was always in the mood. But the memory of Jack lingered in his mind.

“Sir?”

“No, Ianto, I’ve got everything I need. You head home, get some rest.” Ianto looked ruffled, if only for a brief second, and then regained his composure.

“Goodnight then, Sir.”

“Goodnight, Ianto.” Ianto turned to leave, but stopped, and turned back.

“His name suits you, you know.” Jack looked up at him, knowing his eyes betrayed every emotion coursing through his mind.

“Who?”

“That man, from the picture. I looked him up. Turns out, Captain Jack Harkness died in 1941. But yet, here you are.” Ianto stepped forward, laying his overcoat on one of Jack’s leather chairs.

“It’s…complicated.” Jack drank down the rest of his brandy and sat the glass on his desk. He put his elbows on the flat, wooden surface, and clasped his hands together.

“I know.” Ianto sat in the chair not containing his coat and gazed at Jack intently. “Something else I found, when I was looking him up, strange interview with one of his men who said that the night before he died, he managed to convince the whole platoon he was a, oh how did he put it, a ‘dandy’.”

Jack looked at Ianto, and met his eyes.

“Seems Captain Jack’s last dance was with a man. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?” Ianto’s face was not accusatory, nor was he using an accusing tone. He merely wanted Jack to open up about himself. This thought nearly had Jack reaching again for the brandy. Instead he twitched nervously, and lowered his arms.

“Look, Ianto –”

“Jack,” Ianto stretched out him arm and placed his hand on top of Jack’s, “you don’t have to say anything.” Jack brought his eyes up, level with the chocolate brown ones he loved to get lost in.

“Tosh told me. Only because I pried at her. But, Sir…Jack, you don’t need to explain. It’s okay. I know how you’re hurting, and I just want you to know that I’m here for you, if you need me. And you don’t have to say anything. We can just sit here, just like this.” He felt Jack’s hand clench beneath his own, and then they were together, fingers entwined.

And Jack broke. The man who could never die let loose tears he should never shed, yet here he was. Ianto circled the desk, never releasing Jack’s hand, and wrapped his other arm around Jack’s shoulders in a loving embrace as Jack sobbed. And it didn’t matter. It would be just another secret kept for just the two of them.

Because after all, everyone needs to cry sometimes. Even the Captain.

**.**

Ianto woke, hours later, alone in Jack’s bed. The pair had ended up there, but had kept the evening platonic between them, in memory of the captain Jack had lost. Ianto noted that he still had his shoes on, and carefully arose from the bed before scaling the ladder.

Jack was sitting at his desk, feet propped on top. The radio was on, and Jack was humming along. He looked up when Ianto entered.

They didn’t need to speak, but Jack wanted to.

“Thank you.” He smiled

“Not a problem, sir.” Ianto smiled in return, taking a chair opposite Jack. “What exactly are we listening to?”

Jack gave a soft chuckle. “Just an old classic that never gets old.” And he resumed humming and nodding to the music.

**.**

_“I may be right, I may be wrong,_  
But I’m perfectly willing to swear  
That when you turned and smiled at me  
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” 

**Author's Note:**

>  ****  
> Disclaimer: Torchwood is the property of Russell T. Davies.  
>   
> 
>  
> 
> On a side note: the lyrics at the end are from the song "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." The song was featured in the episode. The song was originally written by Nat King Cole however many artists have their own versions.


End file.
